


Ties of the Heart

by hazel1706



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Divergence, F/M, M/M, Post-First War, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-20
Updated: 2016-01-20
Packaged: 2018-05-15 01:59:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5767018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hazel1706/pseuds/hazel1706
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Voldemort disappears, the war ends but Remus is left with nothing but questions and heartache. Despite what everyone's saying part of him knows Sirius is innocent, Dumbledore's being less than helpful and on top of that, a series of unexpected events end with him in charge of his best friend's orphaned son.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ties of the Heart

**August 1981**

 

The headmaster's office was unnaturally quiet, it was the kind of silence that stretches the seconds after an unanswered question, turns them into minutes, hours. The room was eerily still, nothing moved but the shadows, which danced as the candlelight flickered. Presumably they had been enchanted, because they illuminated more of the spacious office than they probably should have, casting shadows only on the far walls and leaving the rest of the room bathed in a yellow glow. The headmaster's grave expression was lit from below, as the candles were on the desk he sat at, and his guest looked sickly and pale in the unnatural light.

Under Dumbledore’s unreadable gaze, Remus Lupin felt like he was being thrown back through the years, felt like a teenager again. He hated it, being reduced to a child asking for permission, not being allowed agency- especially when freedom was what they were _fighting for_. Hadn’t he more than earned the right to feel like an equal for once? His traitorous inferiority complex told him no, but in his heart of hearts he held on to hope, which was, he thought wryly, actually making it worse.

Remus told himself he had no right to complain, Dumbledore had been good to him, better than anyone else had ever been (not _anyone_ else, he sternly reminded himself- the promises of naïve children were held close to his heart, even after all these years) but he also felt...trapped sometimes. He was willing to help any way Dumbledore needed, but he stubbornly harboured resentment in dark corners of his mind. The parts of himself where he hated using his inferiority as a bargaining chip, resented the spying and sneaking around while he wore the wolf’s skin like a badge of honour in order to pass unnoticed. It was a difficult lie to balance with his sense of self while he cursed his lycanthropy every time he bartered with it. He refused to think about the nights between missions, the ones spent scrubbing himself clean, rubbing raw the skin of a strange, rabid animal, trying to tell himself it was just a disguise while it clung to his every inch.

It was so much harder when his friends weren’t there to remind him who he was. He nervously twisted a fraying thread on his sleeve, rolling it into a tangled mess between his fingers.

Lupin broke eye contact first, unable to bear the headmaster’s unfathomable blue eyes boring holes into his calm façade. His gaze flickered around the room, scanning the peeling letters on old books that lined the walls, shelves and shelves of them. Remus wondered for a moment if Dumbledore had read them all.

The headmaster blinked behind his half-moon spectacles, and carefully folded his hands on his desk. “I’m afraid there is nothing I can do. Another time, Remus,” Dumbledore’s dismissal was calm, and gentle, but no less hurtful than if it had been barbed and hurled in anger. He had more important things to do, always something else, always something to attend to, more secrets to keep and conspiracies to spin. There was never time anymore, never an uninterrupted moment with friends, or a thought that wasn’t chased away by the worry that preoccupied them all, day and night.

All this war did was take. It took their youth, their friends, siphoning away all they had until the very seconds they tried to cherish were snatched from them by the duty they held to the cause.

Lupin closed his eyes briefly, and sighed, weary to the bone. He walked out without so much as a goodbye.

* * *

 

The corridors were quiet, dusk had come and gone and the teachers that spent summers there were all busy, holed up in their offices or in bed. The castle was so achingly familiar that, in his vulnerable state, he was very nearly moved to tears. The months he spent underground and out of contact, sleeping under strange bridges and in musty abandoned buildings seemed so dreamlike now. Nightmarish, to be sure, but they also felt sharp, and clear-cut, like tableaus made of glass and painted to look almost real, with colours too washed out and reds too bright like spots of blood on dusty stone. In contrast to the warm familiarity he felt walking the halls of Hogwarts again, this place still felt like home. The barest, lingering scent of musty curtains and mud tracked by students who hadn’t learned to fear Filch’s wrath, it all evoked memories of crackling fires and late nights spent talking about nothing and everything, laughing until their voices gave out and they sat in comfortable silence. It was such a stark dichotomy between the two realities, and it was dizzying to maintain them both.

In that moment he gave in to his comforting memories, and sunk into them, like a warm bath they soothed sore spots that had cropped up over the months of loneliness. Just for a second he felt like he was fifteen again, young and happy, he wasn’t as burdened here, in his illusion of safety spun by strands of memory.

In those days he wasn’t alone. He allowed himself a brief smile, basking in the cherished memories, simpler times spent with friends he never thought he’d have.

Once he was a few corridors down from Dumbledore’s office he paused, and leaned heavily against the nearest wall. The roughly carved stone was cold through his robe, but he ignored the shiver that ran up his spine.

He was still garbed in the tattered robes he’d donned _weeks_ ago, painfully aware that he smelt like unwashed dog- it was one of those moments where he wholeheartedly resented his enhanced sense of smell, because he knew there were undertones that he was subjected to that no one else could detect. The salted tang of blood, the raw edge of rotted meat, and a stale, bitter scent of some kind of fungus. Not only was the smell overwhelmingly unpleasant, but being able to pick out the different aromas made him feel, for what felt the the hundredth time that week, so much less human than he’d like.

His friends and allies would sometimes praise how useful the talent was, when it suited them, but more often than not it just made him weary to be so different. His heart ached for his friends, more than ever. He knew he would never hear the judgmental, condescending barbs under a compliment when he spoke to James, never see a guarded expression, lingering on the edge of fearful, when he looked at Sirius, he didn’t have to grit his teeth through double-edged questions from Peter and Lily had always been so understanding, even when she had no reason to be.

The thin strands of happiness he’d woven his sanctuary from snapped, torn by the weight of his reality. Gossamer tendrils of the beautiful fantasy withered around him, and he was left with nothing but his recent memories and a bad taste in his mouth.

Because the reality of it was, despite the fact that he could count on them not to make disparaging passes about his condition, they were hardly the close-knit group they used to be. What with James and Lily in hiding, and Sirius...

He hated that the thought even crossed his mind, but he wasn’t sure where they stood anymore. Doubt planted ugly seeds in his mind, and they were putting down roots. There was so much deception, so many secrets to keep, that Remus couldn’t be sure of anything anymore. His condition had long ago forced him to give up on impotent rage, for the sake of his own health more than anything else, but it seemed a tempting option in such a situation.

Peter had tried to reassure him in the brief moment they’d seen each other almost a fortnight ago, but his quiet, uncertain words had done nothing to soothe Remus’s insidious suspicious. It was a fruitless endeavour, Peter had no specific comfort to offer, because Remus hadn’t told him explicitly what he was worried about, of course.

Because being honest with his friends _obviously_ wasn’t an option anymore, he thought to himself, shamelessly bitter.

He wasn’t even sure why he’d come to Dumbledore anymore. He knew that the headmaster wouldn’t be able to tell him anything, wouldn’t have any answers he wanted to hear. It was an uncomfortable feeling, growing up and realizing that serene, all-knowing Dumbledore was not the infallible, inexhaustible source of pensive wisdom that children often wanted him to be, needed him to be.

He was, in fact, a frustrating _git_ sometimes.

Which wasn’t fair at all, but what in the bloody fuck _was_ anymore?

He leaned a little harder against the wall and ground the heel of his palm into his forehead, feeling so very tired. When was the last time he slept? It was hard to tell, between all the thoughts jangling about in his head like loose pocket change, clinking incoherently together until the cacophony devolved into a dull throbbing in his temples.

Nothing made sense anymore, he wasn’t sure he could trust the man he’d always considered one of his closest friends, and people who had promised their unconditional friendship were in the wind, lost to him for all intents and purposes. On top of that, Dumbledore wouldn’t help him untwist the tangled cobweb of lies and suspicions that were starting to smother him from the inside; the only man who knew where the spiders themselves lived wouldn’t even clean up the mess they left in their wake.

This wasn’t helping. There was no point in hanging around wallowing, not while there was still a war going on, and people were _dying_. Working with Dumbledore and the Order was saving lives, fighting for a better world and all that, he needed to remind himself of that before he got swept up in personal drama.

Remus put aside his own hurt feelings with practiced ease and pushed himself up off the wall. His shoulders were sore from leaning against the unyielding stone, and he felt infinitely older than his scant twenty years. Partially a side effect of his condition (he’d found a streak of greying hair behind his left ear the other day; it had provided a few minutes of escape while he’d imagined James and Sirius’s teasing with a small smile on his face) but he knew that stress was also to blame, the war laying responsibility on his young, admittedly frail shoulders until they bowed under the weight.

As he left the castle he savoured the night air that washed over him, though it was unseasonably chilled, he thought absently. The whole summer had been a misty grey, the outdoors more shapeless and pale than green and lush like it was supposed to be that time of year. Dementors, buggering up the weather with their cold presence, distorting what little joy was left in the world. They wouldn’t be at Hogwarts, of course, but they were so numerous that it didn’t matter that they weren’t physically present.

He looked up at the sky, and out of habit his eyes found Canis Major, Sirius shining brighter than any other visible star. He couldn’t rightly recall how many astronomy classes he and his friends had wasted pestering Sirius about his constellation, half-hushed, whispered jokes that were cringe-worthy at best but they all spent the whole hour trying not to piss themselves laughing anyway.

And there it was again, under all the anger and distrust that the past months had stirred up, he still thought of them with a warm glow in his chest and a smile on his weary face. Despite all the hardship they’d endured, they were still family to him, and they always would be. No matter how painful it was to love them unconditionally, in his heart of hearts he knew that, somewhere under their own misgivings, they felt the same.

He’d walked to the boundary line and was surprised that it wasn’t guarded. Though, he supposed, if Dumbledore himself had magically warded it, assigning a guard would be redundant. Sure enough, he felt the subtle tingle of magic as he stepped away from the castle, through the enchantments protecting it.

Lupin turned on his heel and Disapparated, leaving Hogwarts behind him with a loud _crack!_

* * *

 

It had been three days since his unceremonious departure from Dumbledore’s office, and there had been no news from the Order; Remus was getting antsy, not quite wishing for another go at the werewolf underground, just for something to do, but pretty damn close to _that_ restless. He was nervously tapping his wand against his thigh and wearing a smooth spot on his floor from pacing around his run-down flat.

His living situation was less than ideal, but better than someone like him could usually hope for. The whole building was mold-ridden, and stank of cheap cigarettes and piss, but the rent was cheap and they never asked why he disappeared for months at a time. One time he’d come home to a “for rent” sign after a particularly long assignment, but they hadn’t been able to find anyone else desperate enough to take the place.

He was seriously considering doing _something_ stupid, and almost hexed the poor owl that tapped on his window a moment later.

The bird gave him a withering glare as he untied the note from her leg, and nearly hit him in the face when she took off without so much as a pause.

“Cold-shoulder from a bird, this is a new low,” Lupin muttered to himself as he unfolded the creased parchment.

 

_Moony,_

 

His heart skipped a beat at the nickname, it had been too long since he’d heard the affectionate moniker.

 

_Can’t put too much in a letter, y’know how it is. Obviously I can’t talk about.. well, anything, actually._

_Don’t really know why I’m writing to you, I suppose, not much to say if we can’t talk- but anyway, our dear professor told me you visited, touching that you care enough to storm out on him, didn’t think you had it in you Moons, gotta say, I’m impressed._

_Not the point. He told me that we weren’t supposed to have any contact right now but ~~this is killing me~~ who cares, right? I don’t know what you’re doing out there, but i hope ~~you’re staying safe~~ it’s more interesting than what he’s got me doing, haha._

 

At this point the note was a mess of corrections, there were black lines of ink marking criss-crosses all across the page, splotches where the quill had leaked and smudged, hesitant marks of a sentence that didn’t quite want to be written, and then,

 

_Don’t die on me, Remus._

_-Padfoot_

 

The parchment was crinkling around the edges, where Remus’s fingers clutched it like it might vanish any second.

“ _Bastard_ ,” he hissed between clenched teeth, but there was no heat behind it. Relief seeped through him, Padfoot’s aimless rambling was, oddly enough, a balm he didn’t know he was looking for. He felt lighter as the large knot of stress and anger that had made itself at home uncoiled a bit.

Remus aimlessly traced the last line with his index finger, passing over Sirius’s hasty sentiment with care, and finally stopping to rest over the messy signature at the foot of the page.

It was almost uncharacteristic of Padfoot to be so upfront about his innate sentimentality. He was in fact, very compassionate and fiercely caring, however the moments where he abandoned his defences entirely were very rare, and Remus cherished every instance. He could remember each time clearly, scraps of memory preserved for posterity in his own personal museum of treasured thoughts.

There was a golden, honey-lit room, red streaks of fabric along the walls, and three faces looking back at him, not one of them bearing the ill-will he expected. There were tears on his cheeks as Sirius told him their idea.

Three years later the moon was beautiful for the first time in eleven years, and grey eyes sparkled with mischief under the glow of star light. The wolf had friends that night, and Remus Lupin was almost aware when he howled at the night sky. The next morning steady hands guided him home, he felt safe, and _loved_.

When they were seventeen, there was a war raging on the outside- outside their safe haven at school, where the world beyond didn’t quite seem real, and hands that steadied him before kept him grounded again. They all promised that leaving their haven wouldn’t change them. It was a lie, but a comforting one. The sentiment was real, and that was all that mattered.

And now, a scribbled note, ink blotted and full of redacted sentiments, but a sweet gesture nonetheless.

Despite the happiness he drew from Sirius’s concern, the vague allusions to secret missions bothered him. Some part of him knew that the dodgy evasiveness wasn’t all Dumbledore’s doing, it hurt, but there was mistrust on both sides. People had been dying because of leaked information for _months_ , naturally everyone was on edge, and more than a few people who didn’t know him as well as the others had been whispering about a werewolf in their ranks being the most likely spy. He wasn’t sure what was worse, that Sirius may have been listening to them, or that his withholding information was, in fact, because Sirius was the spy and couldn’t risk getting caught.

Such ideas haunted him too often.

His thoughts inevitably turned to James and Lily, going into hiding with barely a warning note and no satisfactory goodbye. They had sent a few letters since, general updates on Harry (he felt a twinge of regret when he thought about all the months of growing up that he was missing) and reassurances that they were fine, but the letters stopped reaching him when he went underground. He wasn’t sure if this was part of his cover, or theirs.

Remus collapsed into a nearby chair, ignoring the poof of dust that sprang up when he fell into the cushion. It was the only real piece of furniture in the room, pushed up into a corner beside an old, stained cardboard box he used as a table. There used to be a footstool, but he was certain that his neighbour had stolen it and turned it into a scratching post for his horde of cats.

He leaned his head back against the wall, and ran a hand along his face, like some futile attempt to wipe away the exhaustion that clouded his expression and fogged his mind. He scrubbed the heel of his palm against his eyes, blinking away the gritty dryness.

The letter was still clutched in his other hand, a nondescript declaration of something and nothing, and conflicting emotions continued to rage behind tired eyes.

* * *

 

Two months later, Voldemort made an orphan of Harry Potter, and what was left of Remus’s world came tumbling down.

**Author's Note:**

> 99% sure my astronomy is inaccurate considering where/when it is, but I really wanted to write Remus stargazing like a big dork.


End file.
